Maedhros' Hand
by sylc
Summary: In which Sauron catches a Balrog with Maedhros' severed hand and Fingon is a pretty awful singer.


Sauron had a splitting headache, was in a very foul mood, and wanting to club something very hard. Hopefully to death. Ever since that wanna-be-an-elf had started that awful caterwauling up on Thangorodrim earlier that morning, his brain had been rattling in his skull. This was why he was currently sitting behind a pillar in wait at the bottom of the main pass that led up to the top of the mountain from which he had heard the wailing, a whip in one hand and his meanest and spikiest club in the other. By the Valar, he was going to kill that wanna-be Thangorodrim Idol when the fool came down.

He did not have to wait long. Not two hours since he last heard the noise, he suddenly saw a figure appear out of the mist that cloaked the upper reaches of the mountain. He tapped one of his newly shined and spiky boots in impatient anticipation as the figure slowly ambled down the stairs towards him. As they neared one another, however, the tapping of his boot faltered and then finally stopped.

The approaching figure was a Balrog. A big one. Also, save for the singed leather carry bag that was hanging over the creature's shoulder, a very naked one.

Sauron's eyes narrowed in resentment and disappointment.

As they neared one another, the Balrog looked up and saw him, and then saluted him. "Morning, Lieutenant!"

Sauron nodded and bent slightly to put the club down, leaning it with its handle against the pillar. Then he straightened and folded his arms. "Morning. Was that you singing up on the mountain top?"

The Balrog shook its head. "Me? No, not me. I was sunning myself," he said, thumbing his smoking coal-black hand behind him up at the tops of the three mountains. "Me and eleven others from the north-side. Awful voice, though, huh?"

Sauron nodded slowly, but did not cease gazing sceptically at him. "Why were you all sunning up there?"

The Balrog shot him an odd look, as if baffled by the question. "Well," he said after a long pause, "there is no sun down here now, is there? Got to go right up! Was pretty good today, though. Right about when that awful voice started up, the clouds cleared. Weird, huh?"

Sauron still did not understand. "If you want to be burnt, why not use one of the volcanoes? Or just use the furnaces inside the fortress?" he asked.

The Balrog grinned. "Communal sunbaking, Lieutenant. Communal. The furnaces are not large enough for twelve of us together. As for using a volcano, there is not much of a view in those places. More pleasant on the top. It is also touché for the enemy. When they shine sunlight down on us, we shine our flaming best parts back."

"Yes, but why would you want to sunbake at all? You are perpetually on fire and already extremely burnt!"

The Balrog's grin widened slightly, as if he were tickled by this observation. "Aww, you would be surprised," he said, looking down at his arms. "Got to get little touch-ups in certain areas. Back of the scalp, behind the thighs, you know..."

Sauron nodded slowly, though he did not "know", but if this was what big Balrogs did in their free time, then who was he to argue with them? Certainly, he would need far more than his favourite cog-smasher and whip to change their habits.

There was a pause.

"So," the Balrog said presently, his attention now falling on Sauron's whip and partially hidden club. The burning brow creased slightly. "What are you doing lurking down here?"

"Waiting," Sauron said. He jerked his chin up at the top of the closest mountain. "Waiting for that cursed singing fool to come down here so that I can mash his brains into the next age."

"Oh, that reminds me," the Balrog said, suddenly pulling his bag off of his shoulder. He untied the string that was holding it shut and rummaged around in it for a bit. "Found this up there. Was going to have it for lunch." He pulled out a rather small and very bloody, but unmistakably humanoid limb. "What do you make of it?" He held it up and Sauron saw that it was a hand.

An elvish hand.

He pursed his lips. Well, if there was an elf up there, that certainly explained why the caterwauling had sounded a bit elf-like.

"Elf," he said. "Did you see anything else up there? Any other limbs?"

"No," the Balrog shook his head. "So you think it belongs to an elf, then?"

"Yes." Sauron held out his hand. "Where did you find it?"

"Oh, on one of the plateaus near the top," the Balrog said, ignoring Sauron's outstretched hand. "Near to where Lord Melkor hangs out. I went first to a place a bit lower down, to where I thought the singer's voice had come from, then decided to check out the view seeing as the big boss wasn't there. Don't tell him, though. I was just curious; I've never been up there before."

"Me neither. Any good?"

The Balrog pulled a face and shook his head. "No. Mostly mist. On a clear day it might be better, though. Anyway, I found this on the ground; almost stepped on it." He turned the hand, which had not yet undergone rigor mortis, palm-wards towards Sauron and, with a grin on his face, waved the fingers at him. Sauron snorted.

"Looks like someone found the fool before us," Sauron guessed. "His remains are probably littering the mountainside. No good us searching for him at the moment, though. Mist is too bad." He nodded at the hand. "We should report it, though. Give the hand to me. I will take it to the dark lord."

The Balrog, to his annoyance, shook his head and stuffed the limb back into his bag. "If you do that, I lose my lunch," he said. "No deal."

Sauron sighed. "Look, give it here," he said. "If it really belongs to an elf, then Melkor will have your balls if you dare eat it."

The Balrog stared at him for a long while. Sauron stared stubbornly back at him.

Finally, the Balrog scowled. "Fine, then," he said sourly, and yanked the hand back out of his bag. He slapped it on Sauron's outstretched one. "Bully," he added, as he stalked past him to return to the fortress.


End file.
